


Keep Me Without Chains

by detritius



Series: Wincestverse (Originally posted on tumblr) [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Awkwardness, Blow Jobs, Brother/Brother Incest, Coming In Pants, Coming Untouched, Confessions, Dirty Talk, First Time, Frottage, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-14 22:42:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5761690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/detritius/pseuds/detritius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No matter how many unspoken rules he has to break, Dean wants to give Sam what he needs. Early series wincest, set sometime after 1.19.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep Me Without Chains

**Author's Note:**

> Since the last one was reasonably well-received, I figured I might as well bring over more of my old SPN stuff, particularly since I realized I never really meant for most of them to stand on their own. At the time, I was writing all these non-contiguous but interconnected oneshots, so if I'm going to move some of them over here, they may as well all be together.
> 
> Although it took me a couple months to finish, I think this was the second Supernatural fic I started writing, waaaaaaay back in January of 2011. I'd watched the first two seasons over break, and I was just getting into the fandom, and at the time I was really baffled because it seemed like everyone else was doing established relationship fic and not so much exploring how it could've gotten started and showing the boys trying to get their heads around the social and cultural taboos. Maybe I was just really bad at searching for things, because I was also pretty new to tumblr at the time, but it seemed like no one else was doing that, so I wrote my own. So, pretty talky for a porn fic, but I think that's what I was going for.
> 
> Title is from "Gravity" by Sara Bareilles.

Sometimes, idly, Dean considers taking up smoking. Not that he can afford the dependance, the extra cost, the strain on his body, but damned if it wouldn’t give him an out at times like this. Just clear his throat, say “I’m gonna grab a smoke,” and get out. Only as far as the parking lot, the biting January night, but he’d be out of this room, anyway. Out under the sky, his hands fumbling and freezing as he tries to light up, his breath visible even before that. Cold air burning his throat and lungs on the way in, smoke on the way out. Killing him a little faster, like he needs the help.

For now, he’s lying as still as he can, trying to think of some other excuse to get him out of this bed. It’s probably nothing, he tells himself. Used to the luxury of separate beds, he’s imagining things now they’re stuck sharing again. He’s jumpy from the last hunt. He had one too many. Excuses.

Behind him, Sam shifts around, restless. The bedsprings creak as he rolls onto his side, breathing heavily, maybe caught up in one of his nightmares. Dean’s on the edge of the bed, one arm dangling over the side, but there’s still no space between them. He feels the tense planes of Sam’s back slide against him, Sam’s tee shirt soaked with sweat, the fabric pressed tight between them as he moves. Used to be, there was plenty of room for both of them on a big bed like this. Even then, he’d wake up half the time with Sam wrapped around him, but they were just kids and it didn’t mean anything. Now, Sam lets out a loud, acquiescent sigh and turns over. Dean can feel the looming bulk of his body, and he thinks back, desperately, to the days when there wasn’t so goddamn much of him. One of Sam’s heavy python arms wraps around his chest, skin sticking to skin, and warm as the room is, Dean wishes he’d thought to put a shirt on. He feels too much this way, the hard angle of Sam’s wrist jutting against his ribs, his radiator heat at the base of his spine, his fingertips roaming abstractly, raising goosebumps. He doesn’t know if Sam’s awake or asleep. Doesn’t know which would be worse. He tries to brush Sam’s hand away, but when it wanders back to him, he takes it and pins it over his heart, anything to keep him still. Sam sighs, breathing out lightly against his ear, the tension bleeding out of his body. He collapses even closer, and Dean just holds himself still. Sam’s half on top of him, but that doesn’t have to mean anything, doesn’t mean - He feels something against the back of his thigh, long and hard and heavy as a lead pipe.

He’s out of bed before he can rationalize it to himself. “Uh, Sam, I gotta…” He gestures helplessly at the bathroom before he bolts, all but slamming the door shut behind him. God, is he shaking? He braces himself up against the sink and waits for his breathing to calm down. Tries to make sense of this.

Sam. Okay, that’s a start. Sam, in the next room, just outside this door. Lying in the one bed they’ve got to share for the night. Sam, lying there, waiting for him. Hard. A little shudder ripples through him at the memory of his brother’s dick pressed against him, swollen up with blood and need. He swallows convulsively, his hands clenching, white-knuckled, on the dirty porcelain of the sink. Okay, so Sam’s got a boner. Big deal. The kid hasn’t gotten laid in forever. This is probably the first time he’s had a warm body in his bed since he left school. Doesn’t matter who it is, he’s gonna react. It’s physical. It doesn’t mean anything.

Maybe it’s just a dream, he thinks. Just a stupid dream about his dead girlfriend or that Sarah chick or God knows who else. Maybe if he just stays in here, gives it time, it’ll take care of itself. He’ll wait around long enough for Sam to get off, and slip back into bed when he’s finished. He’ll pretend he never heard or saw or felt anything, and they won’t talk about it in the morning. This never happened.

He’s just about decided on that when he hears a faint voice from the next room. “Dean? What’s going on?” Well, there’s that plan shot to hell.

“Nothing, Sam,” he calls through the door. “Go back to sleep.”

“You sick or something?” Sam asks, his voice thick and disoriented. “You ran out of here so fast…”

Dean swallows, his mouth dry. “I’m fine, Sammy,” he says. “I’ll be there in a minute, okay?” He catches a glimpse of his wide eyes in the mirror. What the hell is he gonna do now?

He knows what Sam wants from him. Has known for awhile, maybe since Sam was old enough to want it. He doesn’t remember ever finding out. It’s just a fact of their lives. But it wasn’t something he ever thought about, and in the old days, Sam didn’t, either. They loved each other, that was all, and Sam knew never to ask for more than that. But since Stanford, things have been different, and lately, they’ve only gotten worse. He’s noticed things. Dreams. That shapeshifter. The way Sam looked at him after they defenestrated that demon girl. Hell, Sam looks at him now like he’s the only person in his entire world. And, more or less, he is.

He can’t pretend he doesn’t know what’s going on. Sam won’t leave him now. The hunt’s gotten into his blood again, but it’s more than that. Dean saw it in his eyes when he was lying in that hospital bed. They both know how close he came to dying. That without Sam, he would have died. And now, no matter what Sam wants, what he needs, he won’t leave. All his choices have run out. This is his whole life, now. Dean shivers again, the fine hairs on his arms and back rising at the sudden chill. He knows he’s taken Sam’s life away from him. He’s tried to deny it to himself, but he knows. The silences between them, Sam staring out the window, his phone dead in his hand. No more checking in with friends. No point. He stops asking where they’re going. Doesn’t care. One place is pretty much like another. That’s what he’s done to Sam, what this life has done to him. God, no wonder. 

Since when is Sam the one who has to make sacrifices?

Dean glances up at his reflection, locks his own eyes. _You know what you have to do, boy._ He blinks, and it’s like he’s looking back at himself as a kid, hearing that, not for the first time. They didn’t have a lot of rules, growing up - do what you’re told, keep quiet. And one more, just for him, more important than anything. _You take care of your brother, Dean._ Just that, over and over. _Whatever he needs, you take care of him._ And he has, his whole life. He’d do anything for Sam - kill for him, die for him, sell his soul for him. Maybe he was taught too well. He looks at his reflection again, pale under the florescent lights. What the hell is wrong with him? What’s one more thing, after all? What he’s thinking - that isn’t his world. Is he really too caught up in those rules to do his duty? Is he really that weak? _You know what you have to do._ He sets his jaw, swallows. Looks up at himself one last time. “Yes, sir,” he whispers. And he flicks off the light.

He steps back into the bedroom, slides under the covers. He sees Sam’s dark shape next to him and wonders if he’s fallen asleep. Maybe he won’t have to do anything. Not tonight. He must make some kind of noise, though, because the next thing he knows, Sam’s sitting up in bed next to him. “Hey,” he says, his voice heavy with sleep, “you okay?”

“I’m fine, Sammy,” he says, and he keeps the tremors out of his voice. “C’mere.” _Go on, do it,_ he dares him silently. _If you’re gonna make a move, do it. I’m ready._ And, sure enough, Sam slings an arm around his naked chest again, spoons up behind him.

“You’re cold,” he whispers, pulling in even closer. His body is so warm, sweltering, as he presses tight to Dean’s back, and yeah, there it is. The convergence of all that heat, almost burning even through layers of cloth, stiff against the long muscle of his thigh. He shivers again, involuntarily, but it just brings Sam closer, slipping his knee between Dean’s legs. Dean thinks it’ll go further from there, but it doesn’t. He feels Sam’s big hand brush against the exposed curve of his hipbone, but it’s so light it could be accidental, and after a second, he pulls away. They’re both waiting, tense and unnatural, the sweat pooling between them. Someone has to make the first move. Dean sighs. Slowly, painfully aware of what he’s doing, he rolls his hips. Slightly. It could have been just another shiver, just the cold. It isn’t enough. He breathes in deep, and his hands fist up in the sheets in front of him as he tries it again, harder, everything south of his ribcage tensing, coiling up.

He feels the long, slow drag of his brother’s cock, feels it trace up his ass like a line of fire. He wants to gasp, curse, cry out, but he bites down on his tongue, and nothing comes out of him but a muffled groan. He’s trying hard not to shake, but his bones are rattling. This is too much. He stops, closes his eyes.

Sam’s lying still behind him, only his chest moving, his breath coming fast and shallow. The expected press of flesh against flesh never comes. “Dean?” he asks, hesitantly. 

“Yeah?”

There’s a long, long moment when neither of them says anything, and Dean begins to wonder if he misjudged this. But then, Sam whispers, his voice breaking, “Don’t stop.”

Dean nods, though he’s not sure Sam can see him in the dark. “Okay,” he whispers. His body is tense and tight, but he manages a slow circular motion of his hips, pressing back against his brother. At the slightest friction between them, Sam lets out a desperate, grateful moan. He must be painfully hard. Maybe it won’t take much. He sets up a slow rhythm, listening to Sam’s gasps and whimpers, doing whatever he can to draw more out of him. Yeah, that’s it, he thinks, as a slow, lingering drag makes Sam suck in his breath, and a hard, sudden jerk back makes him let it all out in a needy moan. It should disgust him, listening to the sounds Sam’s making, the arousal so thick in his voice, but it just drives him on. As he’s doing it, all he’s thinking is, _I’d do anything for you, Sammy. Anything. Even this. Fuck me, even this._ He thrusts his ass back and grinds down hard, and more than anything, he’s determined to make his brother come. 

He thinks they’re close. Sam’s gasping in his ear, thrusting shallowly against him, and following his lead, Dean makes his stokes slow and deliberate. The sensation is overwhelming. Even through three layers of clothes, he can feel the blunt head of Sam’s dick up against his ass, and for just a second, he imagines what it would feel like if they went further. He imagines doing this naked, the heat from Sam’s body magnified a thousand times. Sam’s cock sliding between his ass cheeks, dripping pre-come, lingering over his hole. Sam pushing into him in one swift, sharp, painful thrust. Sam fucking him. He groans at the thought, and there’s a warm stirring low in him, a hard, thick knot in his chest, constricting his throat. Sam’s breathing shallowly on the back of his neck, and he rocks up against him again, again, slow and steady. Even clothed, for a second, Sam almost presses him open, and Dean feels his own dick twitch against his leg. His stomach drops through the floor, and he freezes. He manages to stop himself recoiling away from Sam’s body, but he can’t stifle the shout of fear and disgust that rips its way up his throat. _No. No! I can’t - not from this!_ Behind him, he hears Sam’s breath hitch, not pleasurably, and he realizes that, gripped by panic, he clenched up, stopped moving. And he can’t stop now.

He bites his lip and presses back hard again, gyrating down obscenely against Sam’s cock and hoping to God he won’t notice anything’s wrong. _Finish this,_ he thinks, _you’ll be fine, just finish it._ But Sam hasn’t come yet, and he’s pulling away. He increases his pace, frantically, trying to moan like he wants this, but it just comes out pained, and then Sam’s hands are on his hips, holding him still.

“Dean?” he whispers. “Is… is something wrong?”

“I’m okay, Sam,” he forces out. “I’m fine. You just… you do what you need to.” But it’s no good. He can feel Sam going soft against him. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“For what?” Sam asks. “What happened?” Dean doesn’t answer. “Are you hurt?” he demands. “Did I -”

“No.” He pulls away and sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “It was… it’s nothing, Sam. Don’t worry about it.”

But of course, Sam can’t let it go. He follows Dean to the edge of the bed and sits next to him, still too close, their thighs touching. “You can tell me,” he says.

Dean looks down, away into the darkness. “I told you,” he says. “It’s nothing.”

“It is not nothing,” Sam insists. “I know something’s wrong, Dean. I heard you.”

Dean sighs. Of course Sam would know what those sounds meant. They’ve been through too much together not to know each other’s reactions. “It was nothing you did,” he says, not looking up. “It was me. I couldn’t -”

“Oh God,” Sam breathes. Suddenly, there’s space between them. Dean’s skin goes cold.

“No,” he says, wanting to cut off the distress he hears in Sam’s voice. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have got you going if I couldn’t finish it, that’s all. I’m sorry.”

Sam’s on his feet, looking numb. “It’s not your fault you couldn’t…” His mouth gapes open, helplessly. He can’t seem to find the words.

It’s awful seeing him like this. “Yeah, it is,” Dean says. He swallows. “Shouldn’t have gotten your hopes up.”

Sam’s eyes flash and he steps forward, closing the space between them. “Stop it,” he spits.

“Stop what?”

“Stop trying to make this something you did wrong. I - God, I shouldn’t even want this!” His voice is rising, hysterical. “You think - you think you screwed up because you couldn’t get me off? That’s normal, Dean!”

“Because everything else in our lives is so normal?” he counters.

“That doesn’t - It doesn’t matter who we are! It’s wrong. I shouldn’t…” His voice breaks, and he buries his head in his hands. “You should hate me,” he whispers out, between his fingers.

Dean gets up, and he pries Sam’s hands away from his face. “I couldn’t hate you, Sammy,” he says, looking him in the eyes. “Not ever.”

Sam shakes his head. “I’m sick,” he says. “I’m a freak. I -”

Dean stops the stream of abuse, crashing his lips against Sam’s. Their chests collide as he lunges up on the balls of his feet, and Sam grabs him around the shoulders, steadying him. They’re clinging to each other, and Sam dips his head and kisses Dean back, the press of his lips warm and solid. It only lasts a second, but neither of them pulls away exactly, and they stare at each other in the dark. Dean searches for something to say. “You’re not -” he tries, but it doesn’t fit. “We both are,” he says, and he pulls Sam down to his mouth.

He feels Sam’s lips, dry and tentative against his, Sam’s faint, bitter taste spread between them. His eyes fall closed, and Sam groans and shudders a little, his mouth easing open, slow and questioning. Dean’s trying not to think too hard about what they’re doing as Sam’s tongue skims shallowly over his lower lip, as he opens up a little to let him inside. It’s just a kiss, after all, just one in hundreds, but he can’t forget who he’s doing it with. Everything around him is Sam - his clean soap smell, his breath a little stale from sleep, his familiar heat, his strong hands, his hesitant, over-thought movements. It’s nothing like kissing a girl, and it feels just a little too good. It hits him again that he shouldn’t be doing this, and his breath hitches, and his hands fist up in the back of Sam’s tee shirt.

Sam goes still against him, and pulls back enough that their lips are barely touching. “Dean?” he whispers. He can feel Sam’s sharp, shallow breaths against his lips, the tension in his body, and he realizes this isn’t helping anything. His doubts are just making it worse for Sam, and they either have to stop this now and live with it unspoken between them, or he has to swallow his pride and his fear and do this right. When it comes down to it, it isn’t really a choice. He reaches up and strokes the back of Sam’s neck, rubbing slow circles just under his hairline, and he presses his lips to Sam’s again. Sam groans lightly, and Dean feels his eyelids flutter against his cheek. Then, there’s slightest brush of Sam’s tongue as he wets his lips, and he’s tilting Dean’s jaw up, their unshaven faces rasping together. Sam’s lips are still trembling a little, but they open, warm and pliant against his.

He moans a little and Sam swallows it down, greedy for it, and all he can think is _that’s your baby brother. That’s little Sammy. And you’re not gonna stop._ And no. No, he’s not. Because damned if he’s gonna make Sam go through this alone. He wraps his arms around Sam’s back, pulls him in close. No matter what happens, he won’t pull away this time. Sam’s wrapped all around him, one hand winding into his hair, and it’s just like the old days, only there’s so much unsaid between them, and they aren’t kids anymore. Not innocent. He feels Sam half-hard against his hip, but it doesn’t bother him so much now, not even as Sam ruts softly against him, twitching and coming alive at the touch. Let him. If that’s what Sam needs to get himself off, Dean will give it to him. He’ll give Sam what he needs, like always. And why shouldn’t he? This is his whole life, anyway. 

Closing his eyes, Dean gives in to the whole goddamn fantasy.

He feels Sam guiding them towards the bed, and he lets himself be pushed down onto it, why the hell not, right? Sam breaks away long enough to peel off his shirt, and then lies down beside him, smiling shyly, and oh God, he’s done this too many times not to know what this is, and he’s all for cheap hookups, but not with his _baby brother_. Sam’s looking at him expectantly, waiting to be touched, so skims his fingers up Sam’s chest, just lightly, like he’s checking him for broken bones, and when that doesn’t seem like enough and Sam’s still waiting, he lays down his lips, too, tasting his pulse and the sweetness of his skin. And yeah, this does feel good, and yeah, there’s a part of him that could want this, but when he pulls back from his body, he can’t stand looking into Sam’s eyes. And he should be able to do this if anyone can, should be able to go through the motions like it’s anyone else in his bed for the night, but as he closes his eyes and lets Sam kiss him again, he knows it’s him, and he knows this is like nothing he’s ever done before. He doesn’t know how Sam can manage it, how it’s so easy for him to forget. “Dean,” Sam whispers again, their lips brushing together, and it occurs to him that maybe this thing Sam has for him isn’t just for lack of other options. Maybe it’s more than that. And that’s what he has to believe, if he and Sam are going to do this. It’s because they’re everything to each other, always have been, not because they’ve been too long on the road. But the sick thing is, he’s not even sure there’s a difference.

Sam breathes hard into his ear, distracting him. “You know how long I been thinking about this?” he asks. He’s twitching his hips as he says it, his slow, shallow thrusts forcing helpless-sounding gasps out of him.

“How long?” Dean asks, not sure he wants to know.

“Since - since I left for school,” he gasps, the confession shuddering out of him. “For awhile - for _months_ , Dean - you were all I thought about. God, I missed you so much!” He presses in hard and holds himself there, and a moan tears out of him, stopping the flow of words. But when he comes back to himself a little, he seems ashamed. “It wasn’t like this,” he whispers. “Not at first. But… one night I was just so goddamn lonely, and I couldn’t get you out of my head and I thought… I thought if I was home, you’d be right there, right next to me, close enough to touch, close enough to…” He swallows. “I came, Dean.” He hangs his head, pulls in a deep, shuddering breath, remembering.

“Hey,” Dean says automatically, pulling him close again. “Hey, it’s okay. I missed you too.”

“How much?” Sam asks. He leans down, planting sloppy open-mouthed kisses on Dean’s neck, sucking lightly on his earlobe, and with a sigh, Dean gives in to it.

“Different girl in my bed every night,” he says, “and all I could think about was you.”

Sam moans in appreciation, his breath ghosting hot against Dean’s collarbone. “You ever say my name when you were - when you were with someone?” he asks. Between the words, his lips and tongue are restless. He whispers against Dean’s skin, so soft he almost doesn’t catch it, “You ever call out for me when you came?”

“Almost.” His voice tapers off when Sam sucks one of his nipples into his mouth. “But I wanted to, Sammy.” He realizes the truth of it as he says it. “I wanted to.” And it’s not quite like that, but it’s close enough. “I just -” He says it brokenly. “I couldn’t stand being away from you.”

Sam slides up his body so his lips are brushing the shell of Dean’s ear. “You won’t have to be,” he whispers. “Not like that. I won’t -” HIs breath catches as he presses in tight. “I’m not gonna leave you, Dean.”

Dean has to close his eyes as Sam goes back to kissing him, slow and deep. Of all the things he shouldn’t do, he shouldn’t be glad to hear that, shouldn’t be getting off on it. But at the same time, he wants it so hard that it strains and fills him, that he doesn’t even know how to feel it. There aren’t words, so he just buries his hands in Sam’s hair and tongues him and grinds softly against him. Sam groans and pulls him in tight, pressing back eagerly. He’s full hard now, has to be - Dean doesn’t imagine there can be any more than what he can feel against his hip. God, when did his baby brother get so big? He shudders involuntarily, though he tries to fight it down. It’s not that he’s freaked out or sick or any of that, he tells himself. He just doesn’t know if his body can take it. Sam’s grinding against him now, slow but hard and deep, like he’s trying to fuck into his hipbone, and Dean can feel all of him. God, ten inches, maybe twelve. _So big, Sammy._ It sounds wrong in his head, so wrong it makes his body arch up away from Sam’s as his heart constricts and his stomach clenches with a new, sick need. He groans as the blood rushes through him, leaving him cold everywhere above the navel, everywhere but his hot, inflamed lips. “Sam!” he gasps, all of him surging forward, pressing Sam into the mattress. He has the crazy notion he should apologize, knowing his brother can feel him, but Sam isn’t listening. He’s somewhere beyond words, actually growling as he flips Dean over his shoulder like they’re wrestling, slams him down hard on the bed. It knocks all the breath out of him, and he’s still gasping for air as Sam climbs on top of him, all that weight making it even harder to breathe. There’s not much fight in him as Sam pulls his wrists up and pins them to headboard.

“You give?” he asks, breathless.

“Yeah, I -” Sam doesn’t even let him finish, plunging into his mouth again, fucking into him with his tongue. He tilts his head back for easier access, lets Sam go deep as he wants as he mimics the movement of his tongue with his hips, making his intent more than clear, and Dean’s gasping and bucking up against Sam before he can tell himself he shouldn’t. Sam hisses and his teeth catch on Dean’s lower lip as he pulls away, breaking the kiss brutally. Dean blinks and he’s gone, the dark above him empty. “Sam?” He feels a hot flare of pain in answer as Sam bites him hard where his neck meets his shoulder. He soothes the spot with his tongue before moving on, pressing hot, sharp open-mouthed kissed to Dean’s chest, his abs, his hipbone, lighting his skin on fire. “Sam?” he gasps. He can barely get the word out. Sam looks up at him, his eyes black with lust, but he doesn’t answer. He just grins and hooks his fingers under the hem of Dean’s pants. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Wanna give you something,” Sam says, pulling his pants down an inch, kissing the skin exposed. He does it again, and again, getting lower, and Dean knows this shouldn’t happen, but he can’t quite pull away.

“Sammy…” he says weakly. _Stop it,_ he thinks. But that’s not what comes out of his mouth. “You sure?” he asks.

“God, yeah.” He closes his eyes. “I want you. So much. I - I’ve dreamed about this, Dean.”

His heart beats thickly at that, sending a jolt down his body. He feels his cock twitch - right in Sam’s face, Jesus - and despite the need pulsing through his him, his skin cringes with horror. “I can’t,” he breathes. “I can’t do this to you, Sammy.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” Sam says. “Just lie back. I’ll take care of you, like you’ve always taken care of me.”

He can only groan at that, his gut twisting at how hot and needy it makes him.

Sam looks up at him with those wide, too-earnest eyes, and he can’t believe this is happening. “If you want me to stop, I’ll stop,” he says softly. “What do you want, Dean?” he asks. “Please. Just tell me.”

He wants to forget this ever happened. He wants to make Sam happy. He wants this to be over. He wants to come down Sam’s throat. He doesn’t know what the hell he wants until he says it. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”

“You won’t,” Sam promises. “I can do this, Dean. I practiced. I’m ready.”

“You practiced?” he asks, something in him coiling tight at the thought of Sam on his knees for some stranger.

“Yeah,” Sam says, “You know, with beer bottles… and fruit.”

“What?” He can’t help cracking up a little, in relief partly, but mostly from the mental picture he gets of Sam with a banana halfway down his throat. “You’re shittin’ me.”

“No, I’m not.” He grins, and rubs the back of his neck, self-conscious. “I’ll show you sometime if you want.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Something in Sam’s face changes. He’s still smiling, but there’s something smoldering about his eyes. “I could show you right now,” he says, dipping his head low.

He feels Sam’s face brush up against him through the thin fabric of his worn-out sweats, feels the hard curve of his cheekbone, the tip of his nose. “God, Sam, oh my God…” It’s all he can do not to shove his head the rest of the way down, make him stop teasing. “Please,” he whispers, forcing the words out over the endless refrain of _you’re going to hell for this, you’re going to hell, you’re going to hell…_ “Please, Sammy.”

Sam looks up at him for just a second and nods mutely. Then, in one motion, he pulls Dean’s pants down to his knees.

Dean tries not to gasp at the suddenness of it as his face flushes hot and he fights the instinctive urge to pull back or cover himself. He hears Sam’s guttural moan, feels the breath of it against his dick. “Oh, Dean,” he groans, spilled out between the less intelligible sounds streaming out of his slack, desperate mouth. He reaches out to touch, hesitantly, almost reverently, skimming up the length with his fingertips. He shudders a little and lowers his head, trying to get his breathing under control. “Dean,” he whispers again, like it’s the only thing in the world that matters. Then he wraps his lips around the head of Dean’s cock, sucking gently, and Dean’s eye roll back. He’s blind for a second, and once he blinks his vision back, he almost loses it all over again at the sight of Sam mouthing down his dick, his lips dark red and open, his tongue sliding along his skin. He has to look away or risk coming right there, all over Sam’s face, and the thought of that forces a broken moan out of him. He stares up at the cracked, dirty motel ceiling, trying to get his head straight, as Sam licks at him sloppily, making small, wet, obscene sounds, but he still cries out and arches up off the bed when Sam takes him in one hand and guides him deep into his throat. Sam makes a slight noise too, around him, sending shock waves racing up his spine. Then he’s pulling off a little and forcing himself back down, breathing out harshly through his nose. Dean feels the scrape of teeth for a second before he covers them, feels him gag a little as he struggles to open his throat for more. He still has one hand curled loosely around Dean’s base, but now he pulls it back and replaces it with his lips, going all the way down. 

Dean groans in pleasure, driven by instinct, his body wanting nothing more than to thrust up into the tight, hot, slick channel of Sam’s throat, fuck his face. He grunts and his hips twitch up, and God, does it feel good as Sam clenches around him. “Yeah,” he moans. “Oh, yeah, come on, give it to me!” Sam doesn’t answer in words, just sucks in a breath through his nose and hollows his cheeks. He lets Dean slip almost all the way out of his mouth, making him whine in protest, before deep-throating him again, making him see stars. Dean buries his hands in his hair and gasps out, not thinking about much beyond getting off, and as he slams into the back of Sam’s throat again, he’s so close. But then there’s a slight pained sound, choked off as Sam tries to swallow around him, his breath faltering in desperate gasps, and that wakes Dean up a little. “Sam?” he asks. Sam doesn’t even look up at him, too intent on what he’s doing, panting raggedly as he pulls back, shuddering as he goes down, trying to keep pace. “Sam!” he says again, warningly now, but Sam just speeds up even more, his body spasming with the effort. And though the thick, hot pleasure of it makes his joints feel weak and liquid, though it’s making him shake, Dean manages to get a grip on Sam’s hair and pull him off. “Sammy,” he says, hoarsely, like he’s the one with something in his throat, “stop.”

Sam looks up at him with his mouth swollen and his eyes tearing. “Just close your eyes, okay?” he whispers. “Close your eyes and pretend it’s someone else.”

“What?”

“Please,” Sam says, his voice rasping. “Just let me finish this, and I’ll never ask for anything again, I swear. Just let me - Just come. Just close your eyes and -”

“I can’t…” He wants to tell Sam that he can’t forget who he’s with, that he doesn’t want to, that this is everything he never knew he needed. But it’s too much and he can’t explain it, not now. “Just go easy,” he says, and he lets go of his fistful of Sam’s hair, lets him do what he wants. He does have to close his eyes to block out the distraught look on Sam’s face.

It takes less than a minute for Sam to finish him, and he comes with a thick, desperate moan that probably says too much. He keeps his eyes closed, feeling hazy and disconnected, but he can’t ignore the feeling of Sam’s forehead resting against his thigh, the sigh of his breath as he whispers “I’m sorry.”

“S’okay,” Dean murmurs. He’s starting to come around enough to feel ashamed of what they did, but damned if he’s gonna let Sam know that. He feels very naked all of a sudden, and struggles with the urge to pull the sheet up over himself. “C’mere,” he says instead, squeezing Sam’s shoulder and guiding him up to lie next to him. He expects Sam to curl over him, close and warm, but he doesn’t. He rolls off to the side and turns his back. And it’s not right. Even if this never happened between them, even if they were in separate beds like this was any other night, Sam never, ever turns his back on him. His skin goes cold, and his heart feels like sinking through the floor. “Sammy,” he whispers, reaching out and touching him, getting bare skin and feeling wrong and pulling away. “Hey,” he says, though his voice is breaking. “What’s wrong?”

Sam’s breath catches, and Dean knows immediately that it was a stupid thing to say. They both know what’s wrong, don’t they? God, he never should have let this happen. He should have done more to stop this. “I’m so sorry, Sammy,” he whispers.

That does it, and finally Sam turns over and faces him. “You’re sorry?” he asks. “What the hell did you do?”

“I shouldn’t have -” he swallows, shakes his head. “I never should have let you…” He knew it would come out this way, didn’t he? Knew it would make things wrong between them. He should have told Sam no. He should have pretended he never felt anything. He should have spent the night in the bathtub.

“So that’s what you did? You let me?” Sam’s voice is thin and tight, a little hysterical. “You think I’m a dumb kid who doesn’t know any better, and you shoulda stopped me before I went too far? I knew what I was doing. Dean!” He gasps and chokes and tries to get himself together. “Do you really think I’m that innocent? I knew it was wrong - God, it’s incest! And I knew what it would probably do to you. I knew it would make you feel sick and dirty and I asked for it anyway. So don’t you fucking tell me you’re sorry. I _used_ you, Dean.”

Dean shakes his head and swallows and scrubs a hand over his eyes. “You didn’t do any of that to me,” he says softly. “I wanted it. I… I liked it. You didn’t take anything from me, Sammy. You got nothing to feel guilty for.”

Sam just stares at him for awhile, scrutinizing his face like he’s trying to figure this out. “If you wanted it,” he says, finally, “if it was good for you… why’d you tell me to stop?”

Dean looks down at the stained bedspread between them. “You were choking,” he says. “You thought you had it under control but you didn’t, and I don’t want to see you hurt, that’s all. Not ever.” And when Sam still doesn’t look convinced, “I’m okay, Sam, really. I promise.”

“You sure?” Sam asks. His voice is still so hoarse, and there’s a part of Dean that still isn’t okay with this. Probably never will be. But he nods, sure his voice will fail him if he tries to say anything out loud, and opens up his arms for Sam. Slowly, Sam eases over and settles against him. He’s tense at first, but when Dean wraps an arm around his naked back, clammy with drying sweat, he sighs and relaxes into the embrace. Dean can almost feel the distress and anxiety ebbing out of him as he buries his face in Dean’s neck, taking comfort from his closeness, his warmth, the same way he has since he was nine years old and Dean couldn’t tell him anymore that the monsters in his nightmares weren’t real. Back then, there was nothing good to say, so he made Sam feel safe the only way he knew how, and tonight, it’s pretty much the same. Except they’re so much older now, worn down and stripped of whatever innocence they ever could have had, Dean fucked out and naked, Sam with his stomach full of come and a spreading wet patch on the front of his sweats. Dean blinks, not sure when he realized, but yeah, there it is, damp and a little sticky against his hip.

“You came?” he asks, something like awe and horror mingling in his voice. “While I was -?”

“Yeah,” Sam says. “I’ve been thinking about it for so long, Dean, and it was… it was everything I wanted.”

Dean tries to understand how someone - and not just someone, but his Sammy, his dirty baby boy - could get off from giving head, and can’t, really. “Why?”

“I can’t really explain it,” Sam says. “It wasn’t the way it felt. Not really. It was -” He swallows. “The way you looked when I was going down on you.” It comes out in a murmur. He clears his throat and tries again. “Having you that close,” he says, “you calling my name, pulling my hair… I couldn’t get enough of it.” He sucks in a sated breath, his eyelids fluttering. “I’ve never wanted anyone else like that,” he whispers. “Just you.”

And Dean desperately wants to be able to say _Me neither, Sammy,_ but even now, even though he knows it’s what Sam wants from him, he can’t. There’s some line there that he still can’t cross. Not yet. He can’t think of anything to say, and the silence stretches between them, more than a little awkward, until Sam finally breaks it. “I’m gonna grab a smoke,” he says. “You want one?”

“What?” Dean asks, but Sam ignores him, leaning over the side of the bed and digging in his bag until he comes back up with a lighter and a pack of cigarettes. He lights one, sucks in a deep drag, and sighs.

“Uh, Sam?” Dean asks. “Since when do you..?”

Sam looks at him with the cigarette sticking crookedly out of his mouth and shrugs. “Bad habit I picked up at Stanford,” he explains. At Dean’s look, he says, “Don’t worry, it’s not all the time. Just after sex.”

“So you go through, what, a pack a year?” Sam punches him on the arm, but he’s laughing a little too. God, this feels so normal. It twists him up inside, and suddenly, he’s looking for some relief, too. “Can I have -?” he asks.

“Sure.” Sam puts the cigarette to his lips and he breathes in deep. Strange that this is a habit that Sam would pick up when he was away. To him, it tastes like cold mornings and long roads and all the things he’d thought his brother wanted to get away from. He breathes the smoke out again, watches it get lost in the dark, leans in and kisses Sam softly with that taste still on his lips. It isn’t right, but it’s good, and maybe that’s enough.

“I’d do anything for you, Sammy,” he says, almost under his breath. Says it like a prayer.

Sam looks back at him, the light from the smoldering tip reflected in his eyes. “I know,” he says, and in the thin light, he looks haunted for just a second, before he passes off the cigarette and fades back into the darkness again.

Dean takes another drag, the smoke bitter on his tongue, and he tries not to think about it.


End file.
